What's the Opposite of Funny?

Finally, a rant I can use in both my blogs.

What does $40 buy you these days? Three super cute v-neck sweater tops from H&M. A night at the Motel 6 near Bradley Internationally airport in CT. A month of my cell phone service and one cheap seat ticket to the absolute, hands down worst “theatrical” experience of my life. I’ve sat through Oedipus Rex three times and this was worse. I saw this play out in the Chicago suburbs called, uhm, “…rooster something or other” that made me uncomfortably embarrassed because it was so bad. I’ve been in shows that sucked; where I’ve actually used my hair as a mask so people couldn’t see my face. But, never in my life, have I ever been made so irate by the complete and utter lack of competence, foresight, and utter disregard for the audiences during a show as I was last Saturday at the I.O. (formerly Improvolympic) 25th (actually 24th) Anniversary show. Months ago I happily doled out $40 to see what should be a historic night for I.O. Alums such as Mike Myers, Andy Richter, Andy Dick, Rachel Dratch, Amy Poehler, Tim Meadows, Mo Collins to name a few. Plus, several I.O. celebrities, both individuals and teams were slated to perform. As we took our seats, the program listed the line-up of events which consisted of forms of improvisation originated at I.O. Great, fitting, wonderful. I get excited to see the crane over the audience the sold our crowd buzzing with excitement and the realization that this was such a boon for the Chicago improvisation scene as most of the patrons were not improvisers or actors (as is the case in the Loop of Chicago or the land of touring shows) but they were regular theatre goers from all over the Chicagoland area here to witness a night of funny, funny comedy with some of the funniest folks in the business. and though we were in the back of this ginormous theatre, I was sure that it wouldn’t hamper my experience. I wasn’t even concerned that the zipper on my dress was broke.

It was after 8:00p and the show had yet to start. Fine, typical. However, it was actually 8:30p when the show began. Irritating, as we did have an important going away event to get to. When the hosts did come out (finally) their lapel mics weren’t working. As a veteran of several musicals using body mics, I understand that sort of tech difficulty, but I expect it to be fixed IMMEDIATELY. Bad quickly went to worse as none of the lapel mics and the one handheld mic failed to work. This resulted in the intros by Charna Halpern (co-founder of I.O.), Amy Poehler and Rachel Dratch to be repeated 3 times so they could be captured by the camera filming for the DVD. These attempts were futile as anyone passed row 10 on the main floor could only hear every other word. Sort of debacle funny went to unfunny very quickly. Irate patrons yelled from the balcony and actually heckled Andy Richter. Eventually the show was stopped to address the problem. Mars and I left to go to Walgreens to get cash for theatre lobby booze and to get safety pins to fix my zipper. When we returned the show was about to begin again, only this time there were handheld mics on mic stands lining the apron (front) of the stage. I was in disbelief. How the effing hell are these people going to improvise? Improvising with a handheld mic is like doing a play with your script in your hand. Stifling, annoying and utterly distracting. This evening was becoming a bigger rip off by the second. An I.O. house team, The Reckoning did somewhat admirable job is working with the mics, but it was a far cry from ideal circumstances from anyone from a novice to a professional performer.

No one paid to see these people handicapped as they were. They were forced to deny themselves and the audience more than ½ of their comic abilities. Knowing that this show was in such a huge venue, I knew that some of the beautiful nuances that come from facial expression and gestures would be lost, but I figured that I’d hear everything and that the performers were astute with physical comedy that that would make up for the tiny things. In retrospect, the Chicago theatre was probably a lousy choice for improvisation as it is an intimate art form done in typically intimate or small theatre spaces. You have to WORK to be read in a space like that and I don’t think many of these folks gave that much consideration. Furthermore, at I.O. both students and performers are taught to focus on what’s happening onstage, with the group, your partner, group mind, etc. While that does a great service to what goes on onstage and I do not disagree with it by any means, I agree that that is important, kowtowing to that philosophy at the expense of audience alienation is dangerous, rude, selfish, arrogant, and stymies the world of improvisation from being legitimized as an art form, which I think it deserves to be. There was not ONE time in my year of classes that I heard word one about the audience or what the audience brings to the show. And the audiences do bring something to the show; an energy and a life force, without which, performers wouldn’t be performers, they’d be a bunch of people playing pretend in their friends’ basement. Case in point, this was a quote from the Chicago Trib article written by Chris Jones;

Drawn by the caliber of talent on the bill, people had flown in for this show specially, even from as far away as Boston. One patron complained he hadn't heard anything whatsoever from his $75 box seat. A woman who said she had spent $300 on tickets looked near tears. "They had to decide,” she said, with the kind of emotional resonance that people study improv for years to try and achieve, "if they were doing a show for us or for themselves."

Yeah, I was near tears too lady. As we left at intermission (no reason to stay when you can’t hear anything) I was saddened, shocked and disappointed (along with 3500 patrons and all the performers). I know that it couldn’t have been easy to get those comic celebs there at the same time and I would pity any performer celeb or not who finds themselves in this situation. I’m sorry for I.O. because this is a permanent stain on their reputation. Though the blame for the sound debacle has been placed on the hired sound company, I simply cannot put all of this on them. Thousands of concerts and plays alike have been put up at this landmark theatre without the headache that was this anniversary show. There were no special demands or complicated sound configurations. As I said before, my college musical theatre experiences playing his 800 seat theatres, dancing, jumping, grinding, and singing all successful, minus the occasional hot mic or broken mic. This in the event of those unforeseen problems had a contingent back up plan and were always communicated to the sound operator and stage manager. Mind boggling, I tell you.

The best that one can hope is that something was learned from this. You cannot plan thoroughly enough for a huge event like this and I.O. may want to take a little time out and consider that if they want their work to be seen and legitimized as theatre is (which is a common complaint on message boards) they better have a little consideration for the folks who can make that happen; Namely, you and me. I for one will be taking a hiatus from I.O. At least until I can be assured that I can see a show there without throwing a beer at the stage.

Was your Grandma as "cool" as this?

In speaking with my mom last night she was relaying to me some troubles a friend is having (or has had) with her teen children. Teens are not easy and I gave my mom my own little share of hell, so I'm in no way shocked or suprised at things teens may do. So, this girl is 15 and she smokes and skips school. I knew plenty of kids who smoked at that age and more that skipped class. A lot of times they skipped class to smoke. (It makes sense, there's little to no time between classes to suck down a Marlboro Light 100.) I smoked after I started drinking at the age of 18. Great habits. Super. I knew it distressed my mom, and that's certainly not why I did it, but at 18 do you really give a rats ass what distresses your parents? They don't know anything, right? I was reading recently about a trashy ass mom who hosted young highschool kids at her house for sex and booze filled parties because she liked being the "cool mom". Well step aside "cool mom" because I just caught wind of "cool grandma". "Cool grandma" is the mother of my mom's friend and (obviously the smoking skipper daughter's grandma.) "Cool Grandma" has a tendency to undermine "mean mom" when smoking skipper daughter comes calling to complain. I get the grandma instinct to spoil the grandkids, but "cool grandma" recently took things a bit too far when she purchased a pack of cigarettes for skipping smoker granddaughter. "Cool grandma, it's really hard for me to get smokes because the guy who didn't card me got fired and now their's this mean bitch who checks their id's and I really, really, really want a cigarette!!!! Pleeeeeeeaaaaaase?" "Cool grandma" laughs at the plight of her skipping smoker kin and pulls right over into a 7-11 to buy her a fresh pack of tasty cigarettes. When "mean mom" finds the cigarettes and confronts skipping smoker on how she got them, skipping smoker replied, "From grandma." "She bought them for me because you won't!" "Mean mom" confronts "cool grandma" who says, "Oh, it was only one time..." I'm looking forward to hearing about the bottles of Boones Farm "cool grandma" buys for skipping smoker boozer granddaughter. Shit, the worst thing my grandma bought me was bubble gum shaped like a huge hamburger. Mom didn't like it because it wasn't sugarless.

Shouldn't I Feel Better?

Since I quit smoking (six days shy of four weeks), I’ve gotten terrible colds. I feel like complete garbage; Super sore throat, stuffy head so I can’t breathe that well, tight chest, body aches, slight fever etc. Where’s the justice I ask you? I’m learning, though, that people who quit smoking may suffer from crap ass colds initially, but, obviously, one of the benefits of quitting is fewer respiratory illnesses down the line. I guess I have to earn that little bonus. Or maybe it’s your body’s way of saying, “Remember this feeling? You’ll feel a million times worse if you get emphysema, lung cancer or pneumonia. You’re doing a good thing.” Who knows? Who cares at this point? I’m so happy not to be smoking and I’m so happy to find that it does get easier everyday. It really does. Now that I’ve said all of this, I must come clean that I had a cigarette on Saturday night. I was lucky in the fact that that one didn’t open up Pandora’s Box it came close as I asked to bum another one. Fortunately, fate stepped in and separated me from my supplier before I had it. Slips are not relapses, they’re slips. But, they shouldn’t be taken lightly. I’m totally thinking that that one cigarette may have exacerbated this cold; or maybe not. It really doesn’t matter as I entered this 4th week I realized how glad I was to not be smoking. I hadn’t had that feeling yet. I have to cherish the moments I have these positive realizations because I tend to hold on to the negative aspect of quitting, as I’m sure a ton of smokers do. I miss it at times; bars, Sunday traffic, anytime I’m super irritated, etc. I was talking to a friend on Saturday about this quitting and he said though his dad quit almost twenty years ago and is happy about all of that, he still misses cigarettes on occasion. I’ve no doubt that that is a pretty typical thing for an ex-smoker to go through. Hell, if smoking wasn’t bad for you, I may not have quit. What’s this “may” shit? I wouldn’t have. Withdrawals alone are too much to handle sometimes. And nobody told me about the crippling depression. I heard about crankiness, insomnia, poor concentration, anxiety, but not so much about depression and terrible colds. So, I and my blog are now shouting into cyberspace that terrible colds and terrible depression can be a side effect of quitting smoking. My dear Mars and I have had quite a time of it the past few weeks. We passionate and hypersensitive beings (which also happens to be a side effect of not smoking) have a very hard time during drug withdrawal periods. Logic and passion are at opposite ends of the spectrum. Passion is fiery, flailing and all consuming and rapturous, while logic is calm, cool, thoughtful and rational. Oh, and Passion is so much stronger initially that it takes a while (if ever) for logic to prevail. Plus passion is such a great sounding word. It sounds so good they named a fruit after it. Can you even imagine calling something logic fruit? So, I will press on with this quit and try, try, try to keep in mind that this drug that’s leaving my body is taking both a physical and mental toll on me and that it will get better.

Tanorexia

I just read this article on MSN called “Dying to be Tan”. Yes, it’s sort of a dramatic title, but the main point of the article is that there is a high percentage of teens who tan on a regular basis and that most people who develop melanomas experienced the sun damage by the time they were 18. I’ve had my share of sunburns. The worse being a direct result of feeling like a giant, white, insecure cow of a girl amongst the tan, tan, thin girls (though I later find out most of those I envied starved or barfed). Nonetheless, boys liked those girls and boys didn’t like me. That mentality led me to put baby oil on my FACE during a beach vacation in Florida. Dad had said, “You should go in, you look really red.” “Whatever, daaaad.” Cut to the next morning. My face feels a little puffy and tight, and my brother looks at me and bursts out laughing. I run to the mirror and see that my face was swollen to three times it size. My eyes were swelled shut. My lips looked like (well quite a few collagen victims of late) and underneath my eyes was totally purple. My insecure 13 year old mind was devastated and humiliated. I wore 30 sun block and a sun visor (horrific all on it’s own) and the swelling was down by the evening. As I got older the SPF in my lotion got higher. By the time I’d reached high school, I didn’t care that I was white. Aside from the 4 trips a year to the tanning bed for formal dances, I didn’t sun myself anymore. Part of the change was an increase level of security in myself. Granted, I had plenty of other issues, tanning just wasn’t one of them. Part of it was, honestly, getting sick at looking at the dumb ass chicks (and several guys) colored burnt sienna all year long. I knew people who tanned everyday from the age of 12 until graduation and probably beyond. An interesting poll popped up next to this article asking if you thought tanning parlors should ask for parental permission for anyone under 18. 76% of respondents (myself included) said yes. Back in 1986 I’d hear the tan girls on the pay phone during lunch making appointments at the tanning joint near our area. It was a social thing amongst these popular girls. These girls were 12. I don’t know how they paid or if their parents knew or the dangers of tanning beds wasn’t known or what. Of course these were the same girls who got drunk at 12, sucked cock at 13 and got fucked at 14. Hmm, it’s now making sense after all these years why they were so popular with the boys. That, and their parent’s money.
We lived in Seattle, where, face it, no one gets tan. I’m sure that that was a factor in me accepting my fair Irish skin. I do believe that a healthy glow, or a little color is nice to have in the summer. I just got back from Jamaica and prior to that Vegas and thoroughly enjoyed the sun. Covered head to toe in 30 SPF, a hat and some really awesome self tanner that doesn’t make you look orange. I’m not claiming to be better than someone who is a “tanorexic”, we’ve all got our issues. I just find it sort of funny that after hundreds of years of tanning being seen as a sign of low status (just read a Shakespeare comedy), it has become a sign of high status. Particularly being in Seattle, where, like I said, you don’t get a tan. If you were tan, you purchased it or you went skiing in Sun Valley or to Hawaii, etc. Poor people can’t afford to tan. I blame beach movies. Hollywood and beach movies. God, Hollywood’s about the perfect scapegoat for many societal ailments, including drugs, violence, eating disorders, alcoholism, rampant consumer-ism, and of course, tanning, just to name a few. Thanks Hilton. Thanks Lohan. Thanks to you, and thousands like you, government forms now can ask if you are African American, Asian, Eskimo, Native American, Hispanic, Caucasian non-Hispanic, or Caucasian Burnt Sienna. I’m reaching. I know. Tan isn’t a race, but it is a cultural epidemic. Uh-oh, my soap box is getting crushed beneath the weight of my rant. I’ll just get off.

Crazy with the Cheesewiz

Clearance Rack

Beckity, Beck, Beck, Beck.

1996 was a killer year for a Beck show. I know, I saw four of them. You can never get enough Odelay. Actually, the first and second one's I didn't exactly, see, I just heard. It was one of those festivals with a million music acts, food and people. Great bargain, great shows, but deadly crowded at times. The third one I saw was at the beautiful Paramount theatre in Seattle, WA. You may know it from the Pearl Jam 'Even Flow' video where a long haired, Eddie Vedder jumped into the crowd from the balcony. I digress. This show was a suprise for me since tickets had been sold out, scalpers were asking $75 (I was a poor just college grad. saving up for a European trip), and I felt there was no hope. Then came a call from my off and on college boyfriend, with whom I was good friends with but bloody thankful that he was not and had not been by boyfriend for awhile. (Why is hindsight always 20/20?) He'd spent $300 on four Beck tickets and was telling me that he and his friend Steven were going with a couple dates, yet to be scored. I think he felt a little overwhelmed with having spent that money, considering he was a struggling entrepeneur at the time. I wished them well, called them lucky bastards and went about my business. Cut to the next day (day of the concert). Dude calls me and says they couldn't find dates and asked if I wanted to go. For free. Hells yeah. I asked who else was going. He told me that Steven's sister Linda was going as well. Classic. Two eligible, outgoing, Seattle 20 somethings can't scare up dates to a hot, hot show and have to take their ex girlfriend and their sister. Too funny. We all meet up for drinks, slam a few "stiffies" and hit the Paramount. The show was somewhat of a blur. More dancing than ever before. Most energy I'd ever felt at a show and we smoked a doob with a security guard. The fourth and final Beck 'Odelay' show of 1996 was in Philadelphia, PA. I was residing in Newark, DE at the time (don't ask) and Philly was the nearest venue. Again, same high energy, different scene as it was in an arena and we actually got there in time to see the Cardigans open for them. Yeah, I thought that was a weird choice too. Again, we smoked a doob, this time not with a security guard, but next to an 8 year old and his grandpa. No lie. Didn't realize they were there until mid-pass. Ooops. But, very pleased to see the young and old alike appreciating the high energy stage antics of the little, indie, genius freak, Beck. He came to Chicago in 2002. We missed that. Bummer. He'd come to my tiny college town of Ellensburg to play, but I missed that too. My friend Danny saw him in the local health food store and invited him to his house to smoke of the pipe. Beck politely declined, sighting a sore throat. He was in fact shopping for Throat Coat tea. (Bitchin' stuff by the way.). Now Beck is due back here in Chicago. There are no two ways about it, I'm going. It's been nine years since I've rocked a Beck show. The feeling still lives in me like it was yesterday and I'm shocked that is so easily recalled in my mind after all these years. Oh, Beck, I will forever be under your weird and wicked little spell. Ex boyfriends, security guards and eight year old children aside, it's all about you.

August 9, 2005

I ate lunch alone today and continued to read Still Life With Woodpecker. I had my same salad with grilled chicken, mixed greens, peppers, broccoli (or Trees, as my brother used to call them), a tsp. of rosemary olive oil, and red wine vinegar. It's tasty and healthful. I'm one of those people who watches what they eat and truly doesn't mind eating healthy. I even evolved to the person who exercises and eats healthy because it makes me feel good, not so much because it keeps me fit. Though, I'd be a liar if I said that don't care what I look like as long as I feel good. It's a good philosophy and a freeing one, I'd imagine. It's clear that most people don't really feel that way or if they do, they are most likely trying to convince themselves that they feel that way, but they don't really. I'm going to broach the topic of large people. I don't mean "I need to lose 10 lbs" large, I mean, dangerously heavy large. I was raised by two very nice parents who taught my brother and I to be sensitive to other people's feelings at all times. Meaning, don't tease others for things they cannot control. This factor along with my deeply emotional nature and sometimes burndensome ability to put myself in other people's shoes has made me extraordinarily sensitive to the plight of an overweight person in our body concious, and fast food laden society. Back to lunch. As I took my salad to the "dork side" of the cafeteria, (the quiet side where no one really sits) I noticed an extremely large man sitting with his back to the room eating lunch. I couldn't see what he was eating because his wide back blocked his try. Not that it matters anyway, I wasn't looking to judge his selection. Instantly tears sprang to my eyes. This is a problem I have relating to my empathetic nature. I cannot, under any circumstances stand to see a large man, woman or child eating alone in a cafeteria. It's a Pavlovian reaction to this episod of Little House on the Praire where the new, fat kid named Wilbur (way to twist the knife tv writers) being tormented by Nellie and Willie Olson. I'd imagine how lonely and sad they must feel. How hard their days must be. Each morsel being shoved in their mouth solicited pangs of sadness in my heart. Whatever heartbreaking image was branded in my head is still with me today. I realize that I am the weirdo. I realize that not all large people are lonely, sad or face daily ridicule. It's not so much that I feel sorry for large people. I just understand how some non-large sized people view large sized people and it can be cruel, vicious and above all pointless. The initial tears and sadness I feel give way to a rage against those cruel, ignorant, bullies (for lack of a better word). I'm sure anyone who's ever been teased can relate to this. Right? My day goes on as most other work days. I'm comforted by the fact that I'm still the same sensitive girl that I always was. Conversely, I'm saddened by the fact that the insensitive pricks of childhood are now insensitive pricks of adulthood.